“He’s home!” Tranya waved down to the street below. She followed his movement, to the second window, third, and then fourth. Her voice squealed with excitement. “He’s home! He’s home!” She jumped up and down, her pigtails followed.

“Tranya, come here,” her mother reached out, missing the girl as she slipped through her arms. Her pink patent leather shoes clicked against the rock steps as she ran to greet him. She stopped at the door, turning to look at her mom. “I’m sure he’s brought me something! Whenever he carries his case, there’s always a present in it for me.”

Her mother took a deep breath and waited.

The man, wearing a long black trench coat, kept his head down. The brim of his hat covered much of his eyes and some of his face.

He sat his bag down on the sidewalk. The child ran, jumping into his arms, she gushed. “Daddy!”

His smile, familiar though not the one she longed to see, made her heart sink. “Uncle Fin, you’re not my daddy. Where is he?” Her eyes scanned the busy road as tears filled her mother’s eyes.

“Come, sweetie. Me and your uncle need to talk to you.”

The couple lagged behind as Tranya led the way back inside.

“Is everything taken care of?” Her mom whispered to her uncle.

“Yes, I have the policies with me,” he patted his case. “The only way he returns is to haunt us,” he laughed, reaching for the woman’s hand.

“Not funny,” she refused his gesture.

Once inside, the three sat down at the kitchen table.

“Tranya,” her uncle spoke. “Your father is de…..”

“Daddy!” Tranya exited her seat and bolted towards her father as he entered from the patio.

“As you were saying, brother…”

Cloyd Berkeley drew his knees up under his chin. His bare back scraped painfully against the tree as he nervously rocked like a boy. He realized, as a man, he could’ve used a mother.

They were coming……

Earlier in the evening, he watched his long-time neighbor, Mr. Fenty, try and ward off at least a dozen of the creatures with his shotgun, the one he used to murder Hill Gentry for joyriding in his ’40 Ford Coupe years ago – Wasn’t enough proof to convict him. Each head he blew off beckoned two more. They looked human, only difference was their rotting and bloody flesh, symptoms of what newscasters called the alive deceased.

Two weeks ago, Marvin Gilcrest dumped the bodies of his wife and twin daughters into Lake Billings, referred to as Lake Killings by locals. It was no secret how many bodies lay at the bottom, though exact numbers were impossible to come by. The muddy bed acted like a magnet, drawing each corpse beneath whatever held the water. Marvin didn’t know that his girls were still alive. Their adolescent energy turned those deceased, back into the living – called to the surface like chum. Finally, set free, making it clear vengeance wasn’t the Lord’s, not this time. Marvin Gilcrest couldn’t be identified by his features, everyone just assumed.

Cloyd’s pity party peeked about the time a group of sopping wet female monsters, sat a lantern on the tree right above his head, peering down on his weak, puny body. He’d convinced himself as a teen that his mother never wanted him, she couldn’t give him a father, and that he’d practically raised himself. He always felt like he’d done her a favor by sweetening her coffee with antifreeze, until now. He didn’t know if this was karma or just a plain ole’ B….!

Drenched with fear, I wobbled across fifty-two snow-covered, rickety wooden posts, I know because I counted them. They say this is where heaven meets earth. A slip to the right and I would be frozen in the knee-deep waters of Lake Onega, a slip to the left and……

My arms fiercely fought to keep me afloat, my head bobbed in and out of the water, I could hear my every breath, gurgling, trying to escape the panic. Would I fall victim to what is deemed the second worse death known to man? Strangely, I yearned to feel the heat from a raging blaze, drowning had become, for me, the worst way to die. I recollected on better days, a campfire, friends united, I allowed songs of unity to repeat in my head. What had been my purpose? Why had I come here? My search of the truth ultimately led to my untimely death. My lifeless body bounced violently against the wooden pillars, and…. as time passed, we became one.

The shantyman led the crew in song, synchronizing their labor as they hoisted me up to the front of the ship. I didn’t feel any pain as nails pierced through my now carved out features. They attached me to the bow. I would lead many excursions through the same waters that took me and protect many men from the unknown dangers of life off the peaceful shore. The boat, they named after me, Cimantern fifty-two, a myth, a legend. As a man, I was unable to find the heavens though I searched in the most dangerous of places, unafraid and steadfast. My role quickly turned, still unafraid and steadfast… I am the guardian of the vessel at sea.

She scurried across the crowded ground, snagging her habit on a few dead branches as she neared the abandoned chapel in the woods. The cross, symbolically missing from the triangled roof, confirmed her mischief. Devoted to her convent, at twenty-six, she believed the Lord was tempting her.

She had seen him many times, performing maintenance throughout the monastery. She kept her head down, shying away from eye-contact – until one day, he dropped his keys. She bent to retrieve them, the two bumped heads. From that day on, he apologized to the lady every-time their paths crossed, most recently, in the flower garden.

She slipped him a note amidst the baby’s breath.

Quickly ducking into seclusion, she peeked out the circular window, making sure she hadn’t been followed. She placed both hands upon the red bars that covered the opening. She sighed in disappointment, wondering if he read her letter.

She could feel his heavy breath from behind her, and then a slight tickle from his tongue as it gently caressed her neck. Chills crossed her entire body, sensation in places she’d never felt before. Her initial thought was to run, hide, repent for inviting him into her life. She froze. God couldn’t possibly disapprove of such pleasure. His lips followed his hands as they made their way across her shoulders. His nails, unmanicured, dug into the delicate curve of her back. She moaned. He spun her around, whispering her name. The beautiful creature’s eyes lit up like fire, two tiny horns grew perfectly from his brow, he pleaded with her to stay. His grip, powerful and convincing, caused her to fall to her knees. The walls around them crumbled, day turned to night. Weak in every sense of the word, she made a choice to weep for eternity.

“THIS IS NO PLACE FOR A COLORED MAN.”

He pulled his 1959 Chevy Impala around back of the only building left standing after the demolition of the old hospital and construction of the new. His headlights shined upon the blue door, a haunting reminder of how he was denied the opportunity to act as a surgeon on the front lines in this small Mississippi town. Folks were scared of a black man with a scalpel – banned from working in the daylight, he compromised.

Holding tightly to his black bag, he hurried up the walkway and threw the breaker before going inside. The lights buzzed, reflecting off the white floor and metal trays placed around the room. He changed into his white coat, washed and gloved his hands before saying a prayer.

The rear door swung open, in rushed two nurses quickly pushing a gurney. “Dr. Shadow, were you briefed over the phone?” He hated the name Dr. Shadow though in its own right, it was a compliment – he blended in with the night, healed the sick, and was gone before the light, referencing ‘the light’ some patients claim to see on the brink of death, proudly, he hadn’t lost one and didn’t intend to.

“Jerome Milliston, twenty-four, gunshot wound to the abdomen. He’s bleeding bad.” Sweat dripped from the nurse’s forehead. Both ladies had ran the distance of the long hallway that connected the main hospital to Dr. Willie Clay’s surgical arena hidden secretly away from the public. “He hasn’t a penny to pay or a property as guarantee,” she sighed.

Dr. Clay confidently began the operation that would save Mr. Milliston.

Thirty years later, he was placed on the Board of Directors of the very hospital that hid him away.

WHAT’S DONE IN THE DARK – ALWAYS COMES TO LIGHT.

I left home for the West Coast at seventeen, never loved the ocean but it called for me….That’s how I ended up with the deep-blue modeling agency.

My headset was staticky, finally, Joel’s voice came through. “Reach for the Nemo-looking fish,” he snapped a few photos and pointed up, time to move.

I memorized the coordinates, never leaving a paper trail. I grabbed the packs from underneath the coral and stuffed them into my duffel-bag. Nicknamed, Twelve pounds under the sea, a fool-proof exchange.

A mob of Agents stood waiting for us to pull ourselves, soaking wet, back onto the platform. I slowly released the dope, but Frankie-Fed was faster than the current, fishing it out with a net.

Joel and I were dragged away in cuffs. Joel took most of the charges after my paid lawyer quickly advised me to witness for the state.

Finally free…

“Isaac Martin.” A strange woman spoke, revealing her unfamiliar face as the dark-tinted window descended.

“Ma’am?”

“Invest in a better life.” She said. “My son once served in your occupation, losing more than six-months of freedom.” She sat silently reminiscing. “Come with me.” Reaching across the seat, she opened the door. With slim choices, I got in. She placed her hand over my heart. “This is what you must change. I have a project for you.”

We drove away….

I could see a basketball being hurled in my direction, I ducked. “Mr. Martin, come shoot some hoop.” The gymnasium was full of kids, all of whom knew my name.

“Yeah, okay.” I sat my clipboard down and dribbled a few feet before Junior stole the ball from me. I stopped, sighed and chased after him.

I needed a purpose in life and miraculously, I received one.

Penelope Peterson, short and thin, plummeted into the front seat of her grandmother’s Rooster red, rolling, ridiculousness. She’d fought tooth and nail to get her driver’s license without a tidbit of training. She somehow managed to persuade Theodore Blankenship, a month into his dream job at the department of transportation, to fib and give her a perfect passing grade on the road test. It wasn’t long before she realized favors are fixed with figures whether affordable or not.

Laying her head on the steering wheel, she imagined she’d escaped his view. Every hour of every day, she could feel Theo’s dark, piercing stare upon her body. It wasn’t until she leaned up that she realized he had draped his fragile, pale and ultimately feminine body across the top of granny’s go-go mobile. He reached his scrawny arms through the sunroof, wrapping his bony fingers around her neck, he choked the living daylights out of her. She kicked for a moment, lacking the fight Theo the thrill seeking nobody desired. Despite the disappointment, he chopped her chin into tiny pieces, placing blood drenched chunks into a picnic basket strapped to the trunk. He tossed the rest of her body into the forest and drove away. He happily hummed as drops of burgundy splattered down the pavement.

The trail of gore stopped at the end of the road. Theo pumped the brakes and with no success they forcefully found the floorboard, ending him up, rattled and unrecognizable at the bottom of Mount Misery.

The train’s whistle blasted as it approached the station. Marco moved in place trying to keep his blood flowing. He rubbed his arms with his gloveless hands, unable to remember a time in which his pea coat hadn’t kept him warm. His decision to join the Navy wasn’t made lightly. His dad hadn’t spoken to him since he left four years ago. Their disagreement stemmed from a hopeless situation that Marco refused to watch happen. His sick mother had only weeks to live when he set off to serve his country, leaving his old man alone with nothing but his beloved Pabst Blue Ribbon.

Now on leave and this close to Father’s Day, he decided to go see the old geezer, make amends.

The train screeched to a halt. Marco scooped his bag, climbed the steps and found his seat. He imagined the stories he and his pops would share. They were too much alike to have had a good relationship during Marco’s younger years but also too kind-hearted to stay at odds.

The wheels clacked over the rails, he was finally going home.

He took a taxi to the flower shop on the corner of Main. He purchased a bouquet of pink carnations and headed to Chapel Hill Cemetery. He needed to see her resting place, say a few words for inner-peace.

He asked the cabbie to wait for him.

Upon returning to the vehicle, he sat silently staring ahead. “Where to now, sir?” The driver asked, glancing back through the rearview.

“The first Motel you come to.” Marco said. He had no where else to go. The engravings on the tombstone revealed his father had passed away less than two months after his mother. Guilt stricken, Marco would soon choose to join them.

His heavy boots sent particles of dust slightly upward with each step. He groaned as he held on to the back of the chair before finally deciding to sit. The paper, neatly fixed in the typewriter had been placed there for him by his wife. What she expected him to do with it, he wasn’t sure.

He stared at the blank page.

He stared at the blank page.

He stared at the blank page.

It wasn’t blank.

His giant calloused hands trembled as he ran a finger across the red dot barely visible to the naked eye. It smudged, leaving an immovable blemish on his canvas.

A creaking sound from behind him sent chills through his body. His chest sunk as he turned to see his beloved hanging from the rafters. Her petite body swaying ever so slightly. Her eyes, red with blood. Pinned to her shirt was a note.

Don’t let my actions dictate your life. Write the ending to your own story. For better or worse, June.

He began to type.

I haven’t a story or a life that you are not part of. Death do us part. Love, Henry.

He placed the butt of his rifle on the floor and rested his chin on the muzzle.

“What are you reading May Ferrell?” Jay-Dub cut through the park on his way to Basketball practice. He’d seen May there numerous times but never thought to stop and speak – until today. There was something different about her, she had a strangely attractive glow.

“Seventeen magazine,” she giggled and patted the bench, inviting him to sit. “Come, take this quiz,” she flashed the page at him, batted her eyes and sheepishly smiled.

“Okay, but hurry. If I’m late for practice, the coach will bench me,” he quickly sat down.

“Looks like I’m the one benching you. Get it? Benching you? We’re sitting on a bench.”

“Yeah, funny. Ask me the questions.”

“There’s only seven,” she said.

Jay-Dub untruthfully answered all of them, one through seven, number seven made him the most uncomfortable. “Yes, I’ve French kissed a girl, plenty of girls, twenty to be exact. Why do you think they call me Jay-Dub?” He answered.

May tossed the magazine down onto the grass. “Show me,” she turned to face him, closing her eyes, she puckered up….. Nothing…. Nothing at all happened.

She slowly opened her right eye and then her left. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Something tells me your name should be Jay-Zero. You’ve never kissed a girl, have you?”

He sighed deeply. “I have!” He swallowed hard, put his hands on May’s shoulders to steady her and went for it. It lasted less than a second.

“Woah.” The two spoke in sync.

He grabbed his gym bag and began to run off. Stopping, he turned back to the girl. “Meet me here tomorrow, same time.”

“Uh-huh.” May stumbled in the opposite direction, loopy from love.

“Bring another one of those magazines. Do they make one called Eighteen?” He asked.